Training Session
by Zerafall
Summary: Jaune partakes in the age-old father-son bonding of the Arcs: beating the hell out of each other so they can get better at combat. AU


"Hey, Jaune," his father greets him, a jovial smile on his carefree face. Deceptively youthful features with an equally deceptively carefree air.

"Heya," Jaune greets with an equally jovial smile, but his eyes don't smile with him. He still hasn't gotten good enough to fool particularly perceptive people with it, like his father.

His father's smile turns downwards, eyes turning cold and analytical, posture ceasing to be relaxed; carefree air turning serious and stern. Mask slipping off to reveal his true face.

Or is it another mask? Jaune can't tell, he's not that good, yet.

"Your smile's still off," his trainer says, a disapproving frown on his steely visage. This was Nicholas Arc, and nothing less than perfection was good enough for him. Better chastised than dead in the battle-field because of shoddy instruction, he always says.

Jaune just thinks he's being a sadistic bastard; he doesn't complain though, the results of his teacher's training speak for themselves, and he's grateful for that, he really is. Being a Huntsman is serious business, and for Nicholas to not only let him choose his own path, but also to prepare him for it is something he will always be grateful for.

"I know," Jaune says with a grimace, more genuine than the smile. It's not like he finds it particularly difficult to smile when he feels like it, he's just been in a shoddy mood lately, he's going to Beacon soon, leaving behind his family.

Huntsmen have to learn to act well. How else will they be able to convince the whole world that everything's alright when the world's being devoured? A frowning Huntsman is a demoralizing Huntsman, and a demoralizing Huntsman is a very unnecessary and dangerous thing.

"We'll work on that later," his trainer says, "For now, let's work on fighting."

His trainer throws a sword to him.

His right hand snaps up to catch it in a smooth motion, and he flows into a battle-ready stance. He can't quite stop the slight smirk pulling at his mouth because of how cool it makes him feel.

"Nice catch," his trainer nods approvingly; sharp eyes apprasing his stance, "Nice stance too. No flaws. You really have imrpoved a lot, Jaune."

Jaune lips twitch into a grin. Pride reflecting off teeth. Praise from his teacher is as much a commodity as water is to the people of Vacuo.

His trainer brandishes his own blade, and moves to stand a few feet in front of him, body moving into a mirror of Jaune's. Except better, the pride dims, his instructor is still in a whole other echelon compared to him.

Arc style; perfected over centuries, passed down from father to son: Jaune likes to think his ancestors' hands guide him while he's standing like this.

The thought is comforting.

His hands tighten around the grip of his blade; his trainer does the same.

Blue eyes narrow at green. A challenge.

He moves.

Honed speed; like a carefully sharpened weapon, fast- but not exceptionally so. Jaune's never been a particularly speedy person, he's more of an endurance fighter.

It's not enough. Not sufficient to catch Nicholas Arc, legendary huntsman, flat-footed. Not like he's expecting it to.

His stab is parried. A boot covered foot catches him in the gut a second later. He barely moves, but he's winded.

That's all Nicholas Arc, the Yellow Death, needs.

A pommel finds it's way to his throat.

At-least, it tries to. He desperately brings his sword up to block it. His eyes widen, warrior blood pumping in his veins. For a second, he feels like he knows what it means to be truly alive.

A contest of strength is waged.

Muscles strain against force. And Nicholas is older, stronger, and just plain better.

But Jaune was taught by the best, and the best always says that a good Huntsman must use everything in their disposal to win. Even dirty tricks.

 _Especially dirty tricks._

He kneels down, pretending that his father is gaining ground over him.

His left hand quickly grabs a fistful of dirt, and he throws it right in his trainer's eyes. Classic maneuver, Jaune reveled in the dishonor for a second.

The dirty tactics catches Nicholas off guard for a fraction of a second, but that second is all Jaune needs.

He overpowers his father, knocking him off balance, an amazing feat, all things considered. One, not everyone can replicate.

Some might have called it dishonorable. Some might have even called it deplorable, Jaune thinks.

An Arc would laugh at their face, contemptuous sneers on noble visages, jeers rolling off sharp tongues.

When Aurum Arc fought for Vale in the great war, he did so with efficiency, trickery, tactics. He did so as a general who would use everything at his disposal, for the sake of winning the war. And they did.

Arc were pioneers in combat who had no use for such useless things as honor in a fight. An Arc was to combat like a Schnee was to Dust.

Pragmatism is in an Arc's blood; where other old blood families may preach honor and seek glory, Arcs preach efficiency and seek victory.

They built up an image. Not of honorable knights, nor benevlolent protectors. Not of bloodthirsty berserkers, or unrelenting barbarians.

They built up an image of soldiers that always get the job done, of warriors that were wise enough to know when to retreat, of leaders with charisma and wit, and a prodigious ability for battle.

So Jaune wasn't really all that surprised when Nicholas turns out to not really be all that unbalanced, and catches him while he's charging up a poweful swing that would hopefully beat the older blond.

A sword at his neck teaches him not to fall for the same trick twice.

His trainer hums thoughtfully to himself, dropping at the sword at Jaune's neck after a moment.

"Better than last time," the Yellow Death says, approving glint in dark green eyes, "especially the dirt: a good warrior must always use everything at his disposal if he wants to stay alive."

Jaune shrugs, "Not enough to beat you though..."

His father chrotles, "I've been doing this before you were even a thought in me and your mother's head, Jaune; experience trumps all."

"I know, I know, doesn't mean I have to like getting my ass kicked everytime we spar though."

His father grins rougishly, "Then how else will you learn, Jaune?"

"You suck, Dad," Jaune says, but his smile on his face takes the bite off his words.


End file.
